Hope is a Verb
by Jennifer Chase
Summary: What if Katniss had failed the rebellion? What if there was no one to stop the Capitol from demanding children to fight to the death? What is the Games continued . . . forever? Follow two tributes, Eva and Silver, as they struggle to survive the 100th Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Eva.

I flinch as the belt comes towards my face for the fifth time.

"I won't do it again!" I scream. I backpedal until my back bends against the fireplace mantel. Only once a year on reaping day do you get to see such pretty jewelry . . . I saw the pearls and I just. . . I wanted to. . .

I deserve this. It was wrong to touch something that doesn't belong to me.

The belt whips the right side of my face, and my vision goes black as I crumple to the ground.

I don't deserve this.

There must be a way to leave this.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Eva.

I stand in the town square, near the thirteen year olds of district 6, hushed silent with anxiety. It's silent in the stone square, I study my feet and listen to the few trees of my district bristle in the soft breeze. The steady background sound of trucks, speeding cars, and distant trains is silent today.

I can smell the girl's hair next to me, a soft flowery soap. I recognize the scent; I sat behind her in District History class last semester. Her feathery blond hair was always slightly damp in the mornings and smelled of that same flowery soap, like she was freshly bathed. I wonder if she remembers me, I wonder if she can hear my heart pound in my chest as loudly as I can. I feel my quick pulse in my right pointer finger where blood was drawn. My knees feel weak and my breathing quickens. I can wait until next year; I'm too young to go into the games.

My pulse moves to my swollen cheeks and they grow hot; I remember why I have to volunteer.

The air is thick with dread. This horrible day has happened 100 times, and there has been 2 district 6 victors since then. That's 198 people from my home district, dead.

I look around to find my mother in the crowd, and my eyes lock onto hers. She's already staring at me with her lips pursed, arms crossed, and brow furrowed. Maybe she wants me gone; maybe she's hoping I'm the one who gets picked from the big glass bowl. I try to read her expression; anger?

Hope?

Hope has always been an adjective I haven't fully understood. I've never had anything to hope for, so I don't know what it looks like.

The woman on stage has introduced herself as Effie. I remember her from years past, and from old pictures. She has been doing this awful job for decades. The hue of her hair and skin used to change every year, but ever since I've been alive and even a few years before that, her color has stayed the same, grey; with one orange streak in her beehive hair.

Her words go over my head, I'm to numb with fear. My legs shake, my stomach drops, and my heartbeat gains in my chest with every breath. My vision flashes back to the reaping two years ago, when my sister was reaped.

"Volunteer! What are you doing? Volunteer!" My mother screams at me from the parent section, pressing against the row of peace-keepers trying to retain her as my sister walked onto the stone steps. I was in too much shock, I couldn't move. At that moment, I knew my mother would lose it, I knew nothing was going to be the same; I knew I was going to lose Rose.

Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood there; too stunned to do anything. Rose walked up onto the stage, slowly, but calmly, as one tear fell down onto her pale blue dress. She lifted three fingers into the air, and old symbol for respect and sacrifice that was long ago banned. No one returned her gesture and she was quickly ushered off stage before she even met the boy tribute.

We watched the games on our television at home. Rose survived the first night, but was killed the next day when the girl from district 9 pinned her down and slit her throat. She didn't even fight in the end. After being thrown against the same tree fourteen times; she was too weak and had too much internal bleeding. But I know Rose, or at least I thought I knew her; she was head-strong and never gave into anything, especially violence. She was always yelled at by teachers and judged for being passionate about being strictly anti-Hunger Games. She was always talking about a girl named Katniss, who lived in district 12 and died before I was born. I learned about her in District History class; about the failed rebellion. The smell of the flowery soap brings me back and I fight down tears.

The night Rose died; I received my worst beating in all of my thirteen years.

"It should've been you! I loved Rose! She died because you're a selfish bitch!" my mother yelled at me as she shoved me against the wall by the throat. My breathing becomes shallow at the memory. I touch the tender sides of my neck; sometimes I can still feel it. I remember my hair whipping into my eyes, my screaming and my mother's rough, dry hands and long nails clasped onto my throat with no sign of release anytime soon. She finally stopped when I lost consciousness.

That was the night Mom lost it. Dad left us two months later, when Mom became too abusive. I wish he never would have left, he could have saved me. But instead I'm standing her, about to indirectly take my own life.

The video 'brought all the way from the capitol,' speaks of the rebellion. It shows district 12 being plagued my bombs and never reforming, district uprisings killing thousands, and Katniss herself, strapped to pole outside the president's house. Her face is badly bruised and cut, but she doesn't struggle against her restraints. Her husband stands across the landing, holding a black bow aimed for her heart; a peace-keeper aims a gun at his head. Every Panem resident is watching from the streets, watching the tears run down their faces. There's a look in Katniss's eyes, like she's not afraid to die, like there's nothing else in this life worth living for.

Peeta knocks the single arrow he was given and draws. His eyes are too filled with tears to see straight and his arms shake badly.

"Peeta," Katniss calls; pain in her voice. "Shoot straight."

Peeta lets out a sob. He releases, throws the bow behind him, then runs to catch Katniss before she hits the stone ground.

Peeta falls to his knees and lowers Katniss. I've never seen anyone cry as hard as he does. It's not just crying, it's utter despair and misery and hate manifesting through his tears and screams. The image disturbs me every year. The surrounding peace-keepers let him mourn. All of Panem is shell-shocked at what they are forced to watch. Some cry silently, some small children cry loudly.

"Together," he says to her lifeless body. He then attacks the nearest peace-keeper, and disarms his gun. Other peace-keepers advance, but Peeta was too quick. He lies on the cold stone next to his wife and shoots himself in the head.

There is a time elapse of the bodies left outside to rot on those stone steps, kept there as a reminder. The single arrow still pierced in Katniss's stomach, a pool of dried blood around Peeta's head, and no final resting place or memorial for the couple of rebels.

Effie's hand skims the surface of the sea of names. She gravely takes one single white slip from the very top and walks over to the microphone, her face showing remorse and dread.

Maybe I can win. Maybe I have a chance. But it doesn't matter, death is better than what I have now. Effie fails to keep her voice from cracking as she reads the name.

"Samantha Hewitt."

The girl next to me jerks her head up, sending a whiff of flowers my way. She stays frozen where she is. Every head in district 6 turns her way and she ever so slowly starts to move towards Effie. But before she takes more than two steps towards the stage, I grab her wrist and pull her back into the crowd. She looks at me incredulously, tears soaking her face.

This one gesture, this one moment seems like hours. Without taking my eyes off of hers, I break the tense silence with, "I volunteer as tribute," as if I'm speaking quietly just to Samantha.

A young girl with singed, dirty-blond hair picks her head up, looks towards the stage, and steps forward. She wears a thread-bare, faded blue dress; a bequeathment from her dead sister. She has a small frame, thin and weak. Her face is swollen and her arms are bruised. She knows she's the only volunteer there has been is sixteen years, and can feel every eye in the country burning into her back.

Effie stifles a sob. Her eyes flash with what I think is hope, but is quickly replaced with the look of pity again. I notice for the first time the defined lines around her eyes and mouth, making a permanent frown that even all the makeup in the Capitol couldn't cover up.

I don't break eye contact with Effie but shake from head to toe as I walk on stage. She smiles a fake smile at the silent crowd and says, "Tell us your name."

"Eva," I squeak into the microphone. What have I done?

No, this is all just a dream; it's me imagining myself gaining the courage to do what I have wanted to do for so long, what I have needed to do. I've pictured myself doing this so many times before but I never thought it would be this . . . quiet. I feel my pulse in my swollen face and remember. Samantha doesn't deserve this; she deserves her homey life and sweet smelling soap. I don't deserve this either, but Samantha has something to live for, I do not.

Effie's voice is small and unexcited, "Well there you have it, district 6, Eva, your female tribute for the 100th Hunger Games."

I consider making the banned symbol, the three fingers, not for a rebellion cause, but for Rose. But I think better of it, suddenly aware of the size of the peace-keeper's gun no more than twenty feet away. I turn to the city hall and walk, I don't feel my feet hit the ground or see the road in front of me, but I walk.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Silver.

"I volunteer as tribute"

I walk on stage with as much confidence and intimidation I can muster. Stomach in, chest up, chin high, I am a Career; I was born to do this. This moment is the start of my planned out life, I have withheld from all distractions for this; reading for fun, playing sports, being with friends, even having a boyfriend. I must be the only sixteen year old in district 2 to have never been kissed. The nagging in the back of my head should have gone away; I'm starting my games, starting my life, but the pulling in my stomach just gets worse.

As soon as the tributes are picked, they rush us off to the city hall and seat us in individual rooms. I sit on a plush stool next to the couch, legs crossed, eyebrows drawn together, and try not to worry about who will visit me, I shouldn't care. I will see them again, after I win. I find myself chewing my thumb nail and shivering.

She appears in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. I straighten myself with haste, like I always do when she's around.

She strides over to me, too quickly for me to back away and grabs my wrist, examining my chewed off thumb nail with distaste.

"Stop being ridiculous," she says, throwing my arm, hard, back to my side.

"Mom . . . I . . .," I start, but she cuts me off.

"Silver Chapman," she snaps, using my full name, I flinch, I hate when she does that.

"Stop. Being. Ridiculous. I know your nervous habits; I've watched you train since you were a toddler. You'll be fine."

The pulling feeling in the back of my head panics, and breaks my self-built confidence momentarily, "How do you know that? How do you expect me to kill innocent children because I was picked to? What makes you think I'll live?"

Mom slaps me across the face, her wedding ring opening the tiny scar on my cheekbone like she's done so many times. I see a hint of red out of my left eye but don't break eye contact.

"Silver!" she says, speaking loudly in my face. "You sound like one of those hopeless rebel kids! That's not going to keep you alive in the games, focusing will."

I fight back tears. I know our three minutes is almost gone, and I just want to say goodbye, for her to hug me; not to compare me to some victor, or give me advice on staying alive. I just want something. Something before I go fight for my life. She's the only one here, Dad didn't even bother showing up; he's always too busy with work, even on reaping day. I bet the mayor didn't even notice his only daughter was picked to play. All my parents ever talk about is the year they won the games, all they ever teach me is how to throw knives and sword fight, they don't even know my favorite color.

I bury the nagging pull in my head and stab it with perfect form. Because that's what my mother has taught me. She has trained me to bury my personal concerns, and replace them with violence, because that's the only way I know how. Maybe because I need to prove myself to her, maybe because the violence it what I grew up with, either way, all she has ever taught me is perfect form. No other concerns. Just perfect form. I watch her walk out with two peace-keepers; watch her walk away with perfect form.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.**

Chapter 4: Eva.

"Why?"

"Why do you think," I retort.

Tears of anger spring from her eyes, and she lunges for me. She grabs me by my bruised biceps like she's done a million times, her dry fingers fitting the bruises like they're custom made, and shakes me like a toy.

"How dare you be so selfish! You let your sister die and now you volunteer just so you can live. I cared about you. I tried to give you a good life!"

"Care?" I snap back, anger bubbling up inside of me, I rip out of her grip and step back, out of her reach, "You say you care? Since when do you care about me? Was it during the fourth whipping you gave me on my face one hour ago?" I'm hysteric now, and crying, but I don't care. "Or how about when you threw that chair at me last night because I burned your coffee? Or scorned my hair because I didn't sweep under the bed? That was so caring of you!"

I fall onto the sofa behind me and sob into my hands. My mother stands where she is, looking at me in incredulity. She reaches for me, extends her arms quickly, but I grab both her wrists, a twist back. She winces and twists slightly. The effort makes my arms shake and I struggle to maintain my grip. She also struggles, kneeling now.

"You're pathetic. You're mentally unstable, and deserve this." I let go of her, step back, and don't fight the peace-keepers when they come to take her away.


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 5: Silver.

The constant glaze behind my eyes makes the memories of the remake and tribute parade foggy. I vaguely remember my stylist, Fang, explaining why he had no eyebrows, the style this year in the Capitol apparently, and had his skin tinted a different shade of purple each day. I remember his green slit eyes looking me over for dress measurements and the burning soap they scrub your skin with until you feel like you will burst into flames. My daze seems to break on the first day of training when an instructor presses a sword into my right palm. I pick my head up to look at him, a totally ripped, six foot tall guy with spiked hair and, of course, no eyebrows.

I've spent all this time wallowing in self-pity, an emotion I seem to have become used to, and I realize I haven't trained in days. I take a look around at the other tributes. The Careers from district 1 are throwing spears to my left, hitting the training dummies with deadly accuracy. Tributes from six are learning how to set traps while five and seven make fires. Most of the remaining tributes are working on agility or climbing.

I know I'm a threat to the other tributes, training illegally my whole life, and decide it's best to start acting like it. I glance up to the balcony of gamemakers, finding most of them watching me already. I pick my chin up, roll my shoulders back, and attack the surrounding dummies with perfect form.


	6. Chapter 6

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 6: Eva.

I work hard every day all the two weeks of training. I learn to tie knots, how to build a fire, and how to handle knives. Every morning my arms and stomach muscles are sore and I tell myself it's a good sign. The girl from 2 is skilled with a sword, both of the tributes from 1 with spears, and the boy from 7 never misses with throwing axes.

I ask a trainer about the silver bow by the spears, and he mutters about weapons being out of style. I've noticed all the weapons are black. I can faintly see my dim reflection in the flat side of the knife I hold. I take a breath, adjust the handle in my palm, and throw it. It lands directly in the center of the painted heart on the dummy and I smile; taking a step back to examine my work. I've been trying to do that for three days.

My stylist, Nevada, is one of the few people left in the Capitol with eyebrows. He designs a blue dress for the interviews, one made to look like my reaping day dress. I stare at myself in the mirror, my hair braided up, the silky blue fabric skimming the top of my knees, the small straps winding in the back. I look gorgeous, I just don't see the point; I'll be dead in three days. Final training scores are given tomorrow, then the games start the next day.

Darling Buds, the new Master of Ceremonies this year, wears a rich green suit and sports electric blue hair. His short round shape exaggerated by his thick black belt. He's here to replace Caesar Flickman, who took his own life last year. He welcomes me on stage with a wave of his chubby arm and the crowd cheers.

We make common colloquial about the Capitol and my dress, and I try to ignore the sweat breaking on his thin hairline. He becomes out of breath when talking fast and doesn't shift in his chair often. My palms become sticky when I know where the conversation is heading. He's going to ask me about my home life; and I'm going to tell him the truth, just like my mentor and I discussed. It's one last desperate attempt to get sponsors, but she promised it would work.

Darling Buds rests his double chin on his first three fingers, his slight accent portrays his capitol origin. I wonder if he's lived in the Capitol his whole life. "Why, this year of all years, did you choose to volunteer?" I put my head down, studying my folded hands and rub my lips together, like I'm hesitating.

"Well, Darling," I finally say, looking at his wispy hair and try not to gag, "I couldn't take it anymore." I let my voice crack and speak softly, quickly looking down again. I pick at my pink nail polish like I'm nervous. He turns his head slightly to the right in a concerned way and looks at me.

"Whatever do you mean?" He looks out to the crowd, selling the concerned look.

"My mother," I say, fake tears coming to my eyes, I also look to the crowd. "She abused me," I say quickly, "She was mentally unstable and nearly killed me multiple times." The crowd sighs out of pity. This is exactly what my mentor wanted. Everyone will want to help the poor abused 12 year-old from an underdog district.

I tell myself the tears are fake, and that I long ago got over feeling sorry for myself. Drowning in self-pity isn't going to help me, I chose this for myself. But really selling this sob story to the crowd will. I look onto the faces on Panem, every head turned at my face.

I rub my left bicep, where the makeup team brushed on fake bruises where my real ones used to be. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Darling. You see . . ." I sniffle. "It's the fact that she didn't even care that I was leaving. She just let me go . . ." I sigh and look at the floor. "Not that she has ever cared." Buds wipes what I'm sure is also a fake tear from his eye and purses his lips.

"And you figured you can save your friend, save yourself, and show enough bravery to stand up to your mother and fight in the games. Wow. That is amazing."

I never thought about that, but I could use the bravery thing. "I couldn't stand the thought of my dear friend Samantha playing in the games. She's just so sweet. We used to sit together in District History class." I think I can briefly smell her flowery soap, but it's only a memory now.

"You are one brave soul." With much effort and grunting he stands, I stand too. He gestures me to the crowd one last time with, "Eva, your district 6 female tribute for this year's Hunger Games!" Everyone roars so loudly it sounds one person yelling in both my ears. Camera lights flash and people are crying, yelling my name. I give one quick humble bow and walk offstage, waving at passing cameras and wiping fake tears off my cheeks. I smile to myself; people are so easy.


	7. Chapter 7

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 7: Silver

"I just want to get to the games," I tell the audience with excitement, a sly look on my face. "I am completely ready and totally excited."

My own words make me want to throw up. Who says 'totally?' Despite my annoying word choice my mentor smiles from the front row. This is what we planned, girly but vicious, mysterious but a presence.

"Well, well, well!" Darling's left eyebrow twitches as he speaks, "You, are certainly confident," I smile playfully, "and definitely one to look out for!" The crowd cheers loudly. I stand and wave, blowing kisses to the balconies.

It is only until I get back into my suite, a spacy room with every inch covered in rich blue fabrics, that I stop smiling. I stand in front of the mirror hanging from the ceiling on clear threads. While my dress 'designed to look like liquid mercury' is beautiful, I don't see how it's going to help me kill people. Although my seven inch shoes are pretty sharp, I doubt they would be great for running through the arena.

Oh gosh, the arena.

I mean . . . right . . . the arena . . . that violent fight to the death that begins tomorrow morning.

My vision suddenly becomes black on the outside and I blindly make my way back to sit on the plush royal blue bed. In attempt to steady my breathing, I break down in panic. All confidence I have talked myself into is gone and I weep out of pure fear.

Quickly my fear turns to anger, anger at my mom, anger at the Capitol, anger at this stupid dress. I rip it off hastily and lay on top of the covers in undergarments, the fan above me humming softly. I let the cool breeze dry my tears onto my cheeks and curl up on my side in the center of the bed. My makeup runs off my eyes and stains the expensive quilt under my face but I don't mind. Nothing seems important when you're about to die.

My breathing is shaky and terrified, but I don't try to even it. I lie there all night and don't close my eyes for a second.


	8. Chapter 8

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 8: Eva

I knew sleeping tonight would be a hopeless cause, so I wander around my suite all night. I give it all I have to distract myself; noticing every stitch in every piece of cloth in my red and pink hued room, trying on the high class clothes tailor made for me in my closet, even using all the different shower gadgets and perfumes at once. When a flowery smelling soap sprays through the bathroom I become momentarily homesick, and I find the rest of the perfumes blend together and began to all smell the same. I become dizzy and am forced to lie down.

My mind wonders into tomorrow, something I was attempting to avoid. Visions of blood dance on the inside of my eyelids. Blood everywhere, blood of the tribute I'm stabbing in the stomach, blood of the dead animal I'm eating, my blood spilling from my throat. All I see is red, and I suddenly feel intensely queasy.

I shut my eyes as tight as possible and try to stand quickly, but the second I sit up my migraine comes creeping back. I fall onto my back again. I think it's the nerves but I begin to get itchy everywhere, like I'm covered in lice. After forcing myself to stand and undress I lie back into bed and try not to think about the people sleeping above and below me who are ready to kill me. I don't sleep a wink, but I have a feeling no tribute does.


	9. Chapter 9

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 9: Silver

I fidget uncomfortably in my outfit. Of course it fits perfectly, but the tight black pants, black t-shirt, and grey hooded jacket feel extremely warm. Every piece of my attire is made of an odd shiny material. It's thin but hot, and waterproof. My stylist explains enthusiastically how every tributes' jacket is that of their district color, and how grey is flattering with my blue-grey eyes.

I attempt to drown out my stylist frantic rambling and remember my training. I try to make a deduction of what the arena landscape will be based on my outfit, but my brain seems to be on overdrive; imagining every possible possibility of every possible choice I could possibly make. Scenes of fighting and perfect technique and perfect fighting technique and blood and killing flash by so quickly in my head I can't comprehend one gruesome thought before it's replaced with another.

I glance hesitantly at the tube in the corner that will take me above ground. I seat myself in a chair directly across from it and hold the glass of ice water my mentor gave me before leaving. The ice long ago melted so the condensation and constant shaking of my right hand and leg make it impossible to hold. I ask my stylist to braid my hair, but he says he isn't allowed to do that. I don't understand why but I settle for a tight ponytail.

As he pulls my long blond hair back, my mind clears and I begin to remember what to do when that gong rings. The tributes from district 1, Adeline and Tadious, and I have planned on fighting our way through to the mouth of the cornucopia. It is there we decided we will claim, where the most vital supplies and best weapons are stored.

A voice from the speaker on the wall informs me I have twenty seconds left. My breaths become quick and shallow, like I'm hyperventilating, and I break out into a cold sweat. My stylist offers no support. I promised myself I wouldn't do this again, I will not break down. I have perfect form; I am a career, everyone's afraid of me.

_But I don't want to be feared. _A small voice calls from the back of my mind.

_Yes, you do_. _You have perfect form, you have perfect form_. I repeat these words to myself as I am lifted above ground and into the Hunger Games.


	10. Chapter 10

DISCLAIMER: I CLEARLY DON'T OWN THE ORIGINAL PLOT OF THE HUNGER GAMES. I'M NOT SUZANNE COLLINS ALL CREDIT GOES TO HER OKAY BYE.

Chapter 10: Eva

Right about now, I'm really happy I went with my sob story at interviews. My heart beats viciously in my chest, threatening to kill me like 21 other people I know. My stylist pins the last piece of my auburn hair into place and I turn around to thank her.

"Thank you . . . for the last week, I know that this job . . ."

I'm cut off by her quickly walking away and out of the underground room.

"Well then, goodbye to you too," I say. But there's no one here to listen, I'm completely alone in the sterile room. The silence is deafening. The silence gives me opportunities to think, but thinking hasn't been my friend in the last few days. My thoughts are plagued with blood and murder. I don't let my mind alone, and search for something to keep my hands busy with. I check to make sure my dark purple jacket is zipped, by boots are laced, and my 'scars' haven't been rubbed off.

In the mirror I look at my made-up scar that runs down the left side of my face. My remake team told the press that the scar was far too deep for them to fix completely, while they really fixed it weeks ago.

I don't think I have ever seen myself healthy. The complexion on my small round face is clear and radiant, my hair smooth and free of burns, my hazel eyes clear for the first time in forever. I would like to think that if my mother walked in this room right now I would jump into that tube and leave her all over again.

Just then an announcement snaps me out of my daze and tells me it's time to do just that. I take one last deep breath before stepping inside. The second I step onto the circle platform the door slides closed behind me, sealing me in. This brings panic bubbling in my chest again and I fight off tears. My mind is in a horrible frenzy, dread and disorientation join the panic in my chest. The adrenaline is so strong I taste it and my heart continues to pounds dangerously. Sweat breaks in my palms and underarms, behind my neck and on my hairline. The top of the tube opens like a sunroof and I'm lifted into the 100th Games.


End file.
